


all's fair in love and weddings

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andrés is arrogant and impractical and insufferable, Bad First Impressions, Bi awakening, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff, I don't know how he doesn't have a customer rating of 0/5, I don't know how he doesn't have a customer rating of 0/5 either, M/M, Martín is petty and sassy and insufferable, Pining, Rivalry, Swearing, Wedding Planner AU, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25526938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: Even if Martín hadn't seen his face smiling back at him from the cover ofPerfect WeddingandBridal Guidesbefore, he’d have singled him out immediately. There was something about Fonollosa that drew him in, like a moth to the flame – the air of confidence that surrounded him, the effortless grace, the timeless elegance.Or maybe it was simply the fact that Fonollosa was fucking hot, and that Martín wouldn't mind slipping him the key card to his hotel room.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 29
Kudos: 79





	all's fair in love and weddings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shotgun_Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/gifts).



> —Happy Birthday, Shotgun. I humbly offer you the fill to your prompt 'Enemies to Lovers, Berlermo as wedding planners' on this day of your worship. I love you, darling.
> 
> Thank you, [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap), for the beta. Any leftover mistakes are mine and mine alone.

**Three months to the wedding**

“I’m thinking pastels. Petal and dusty peach. Lilac, of course,” Martín gushed as Mónica Gaztambide, model and influencer extraordinaire, led him through her mansion. “We’ll rent a country house for the ceremony to give the whole event a rusty, romantic look. White picket fence and fairy lights. A storybook wedding – it will be all over the news.” 

He tried not to grimace when they passed a room filled with antique porcelain dolls; Martín couldn't understand how someone could have so little taste. But then he remembered that Mónica was going to marry Daniel 'Denver' Ramos – the guy who answered every single question about his soccer career with an ear-splitting giggle. Love was blind. And, apparently, deaf. 

Shaking his head, Martín caught up with Mónica. Trailing behind her like a weepy-eyed child lost in the Museum of Bad Taste and Atrocious Décor wasn’t going to do him any good. This, right here, was the crucial part of planning a wedding. The pitch. He’d have to sway the bride – never mind the groom, he didn’t matter. He’d have to convince Mónica that he knew best, that he had the right experience, the _vision_. 

That he was the only one who could make her feel like a princess, just for one day. 

And if that meant Martín had to gush and croon and call her _cariño_ , well so be it. Over the years he had gotten quite good – amazing, really – at charming women. Mothers-in-law flocked to him like sheep in a meadow, endlessly charmed by his manners, his flirty antics, his charisma. Not that Martín was interested in any of them. No, the mere thought of being with a woman made his skin crawl. 

Point was, Martín was fucking good at what he did. He wasn’t one of the best wedding planners in the whole of Spain for nothing, after all. 

Plastering on a fake smile, Martín set to work. He complimented Mónica on the framed pictures lining the walls (wobbly lines that had either been smudged together by her offspring or a colorblind chimpanzee), gushed about the terra-cotta floor tiles (they could use a good scrubbing-down), asked her where she had gotten her curtains (surprisingly, she hadn’t fished them out of a dumpster). 

He was on a roll. So much so that he almost complimented Mónica on her impeccable taste in men when he saw Andrés de Fonollosa sitting on her sofa. Thankfully, he caught himself just in time, the smile slipping off his face and crumbling onto the floor like a papier-mâché mask. 

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?!” 

Fonollosa looked up from his seat on the chaise longue where he was sitting with his legs crossed, the perfect picture of sophisticated elegance. His head was tilted back, his eyes slightly hooded, and even though Martín was towering over him, it felt like Fonollosa was looking down on him. 

Mónica ignored his outburst. She simply brushed past him to stand next to Denver, entwining her hand with his like a poisonous vine. Neither of them looked bewildered by the whole situation, which meant that this wasn’t a simple misunderstanding, a mix-up in schedules.

No, Martín thought as he took in the blasé expression on Fonollosa’s face. This was an _ambush_. 

“See, the thing is,” Mónica said, letting go of Denver to clasp her hands together, "we would like to hire you both. You were right. Our wedding _is_ going to draw a lot of media attention. We fear that it might be too much work for a single planner.” 

“And two are better than one, right?” Denver snickered, tone-deaf, and Mónica sent him a besotted smile. Martín wanted to _gag_. 

“No offense, _cariño_ ,” Martín drawled in a soft tone, cloying like honey, “but that is an awful idea.” 

“Why, Martín. I believe that is the first time we agree on something.” 

He wanted to fucking _growl_ at Fonollosa, but Mónica stepped in before Martín could do anything he'd regret (like punch Fonollosa's stupid face. With his luck, he'd cut his knuckles on Fonollosa's cheekbones and bleed all over that atrocious carpet). 

“If you’re not up for it, I guess we’ll have to hire someone else instead,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Marsella and Bogotá come highly recommended. We were a bit skeptical about the whole nom de plume thing, but extravaganza seems to be a part of the business.” 

Her eyes roamed over the flamboyant pink of Martín's shirt before moving on to Fonollosa's velvet blazer. Okay, so she had a point. 

Fonollosa clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“Hmm, they did an acceptable job at the Torres-Rubio wedding in May,” he conceded. “If you are striving for mediocrity, they just might be what you need.” 

Mónica pursed her lips, clearly displeased. Martín noted the way her shoulders squared, like a lioness about to lunge at her unsuspecting prey. He’d feel bad for Fonollosa if he didn’t look like an apex predator himself, lazily swatting at them with the flat of his paw. 

Martín cleared his throat and felt the others’ attention snap to him at once. 

(He wasn’t sure if he was brave or just plain fucking stupid for stepping into the line of fire.) 

“If Marsella and Bogotá come as a pair, it's only because neither of them is experienced enough to plan a wedding on their own,” he said, his voice positively dripping with sweetness. “I, however, can guarantee you that I will single-handedly make all your dreams come true, _cariño_.” 

Mónica didn't seem convinced. She merely stared at him with unblinking eyes before crossing her arms in front of her chest. Never a good sign. 

“I’ll have to insist,” she said. “And since I am the _bride_...” 

Ah, the get-out-of-jail-free card. _Martín, darling, can you please iron my dress for me? I am the bride. Will you paint my nails and floss my teeth? I am the bride. Get me a non-fat latte with caramel drizzle? I am the bride._

_Martín, dear, come here and let me walk all over you with my razor-heeled stilettos, like you’re a cheap doormat. I’m the fucking bride._

Fonollosa heaved a sigh. 

“I see. Well, it’s your big day, after all. I’m sure that Martín and I will work wonders. Your wedding will be on everyone’s lips. That is,” he trailed off, tapping his finger against his lips in a disgusting display of mock-innocence. “If Martín agrees to this arrangement.” 

Martín glared at him. 

Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to turn back to Mónica and Denver and tell them _fuck no, I'd rather chew off my own arm than work with fucking Andrés de Fonollosa, thank you very much_. But the dark glint in Fonollosa’s eyes gave him pause. He looked like he had already won, like he was cocksure that his challenge would go unanswered. That Martín would cave in and bow down to him, that he’d _forfeit_. 

Martín turned back to Mónica and Denver, his smile bright and fake. 

“Of course. Anything for the _bride_. I’m sure Fonollosa and I will make a wonderful team.” 

Oh, how he _yearned_ to look at Fonollosa just then. To bask in the way his shoulders must surely tense, to see his jaw clench and his smile sour. But he’d be damned if he let on that he cared about Fonollosa’s opinion. 

No, this was simply a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to put Fonollosa in his place. To prove him wrong, once and for all. To show Fonollosa that Martín had sharp claws and a quick wit, that he knew how to fight back. 

He wouldn’t let Fonollosa get the better of him. Not this time. 

**Nine years ago**

Martín first met Andrés de Fonollosa at an engagement party he was hosting, nine years ago.

Even if Martín hadn't seen his face smiling back at him from the cover of _Perfect Wedding_ and _Bridal Guides_ before, he’d have singled him out immediately. There was something about Fonollosa that drew him in, like a moth to the flame – the air of confidence that surrounded him, the effortless grace, the timeless elegance. 

Or maybe it was simply the fact that Fonollosa was fucking hot, and that Martín wouldn't mind slipping him the key card to his hotel room. 

Martín smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt – a vibrant teal that matched his eyes – before sidling up to Fonollosa. 

“Let me buy you a drink.” 

Slowly, Fonollosa turned towards him. And fuck, he looked even more beautiful up-close, like an illustration of Byron on the cover of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage or a vengeful seraph, all sharp edges and hard angles. He looked dangerous, _commanding_ , and Martín knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would cut himself open on this one.

Their eyes met and something dark flashed across Fonollosa’s face, but it was gone before Martín could make sense of it. 

“It’s an open bar.” 

“That makes me a cheap date then,” Martín joked. 

Fonollosa didn’t laugh, not even a twitch of his lips. Well, Martín thought, change of plans then. 

“Martín Berrote," he said, sticking out his hand. "Charmed to make your acquaintance.” 

And just like that, Fonollosa’s whole demeanor changed. His brow furrowed as his lips drew into a thin line, staring at Martín's hand as though it were a dead trout, flapping in the air between them. 

Martín ran over his words in his mind. Had he accidentally said something to insult Fonollosa? Told him that he looked like a piece of shit and that Martín would like nothing better than to punch him in the face? 

Silence stretched between them, deafening despite the wistful tones of _Faithfully_ ( _oh, I get the joy of rediscovering you_ ) drifting over to the bar. 

Martín cleared his throat. 

“I’m the one who planned this little get-together,” he said, sweeping out his arms to indicate the flower-bedecked venue, the dimmed lights, the guests swaying lazily to the music of the _Journey_ cover band he had hired for the evening. “What about you? Are you friends with the couple?” 

Fonollosa clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He sounded disinterested, like Martín was nothing but an annoying fly buzzing around his head. 

“I’m looking for new clients.” 

Martín blinked at him, owlishly. Once, twice. 

“I’m sorry, what?” He asked, shaking his head as an incredulous smile slipped over his features. Surely, he had gotten that wrong. Fonollosa couldn’t be implying – no, outright _telling_ him – that he had crashed the party to steal Martín's clients right from under his nose. 

“I find that events such as this offer an excellent opportunity to talk about business,” Fonollosa drawled, reaching up to adjust the Eldridge knot of his tie – already immaculate, of course. “Thank you for planning this little – how did you put it? Ah, yes – _get-together_. I’ll be taking it from here.” 

Without so much as a glance in Martín's direction, Fonollosa disappeared into the throng of people. By the time Martín had picked his gaping jaw off the floor and made a beeline for the happy couple, they were already staring at Fonollosa’s business card, enthusing about his impeccable manners, his congeniality, his winning smile. 

How Fonollosa would make sure that their big day was going to be a fairy tale come true, a moment suspended in time. 

It had made Martín _seethe_ with indignation, with resentment, with pure-bred hatred. 

Ever since that moment, a fiery sensation had made its home in Martín's soul, simmering, boiling, burning. It had nested inside of him like a flock of ash-winged phoenices, stretching their wings each time he crossed paths with Fonollosa – at conferences and fairs, or whenever Fonollosa crashed one of Martín's weddings, as unwanted as the cackling witch in _la bella durmiente._

Like any rational-minded man, Martín had compiled a list on his phone to keep track of every single offense, every transgression, every insult. He had swallowed them whole like a greedy little thing, using them to fuel his ire, to push himself further. 

To date, the best-of version (the one he recited when he had had too much to drink, brandishing his phone like it was a notebook filled with confessional poetry) included such gems as: 

> 06/09/2011: _Wedding MBA. Fonollosa spilled wine on my shirt, on fucking purpose. Said that he’d pay for a new suit and shoved a ten-euro bill into my hand. The fucker._
> 
> 11/02/2012: _Pérez-Reyes wedding. Fonollosa showed up with the ex of the groom – had to console the bride when groom left with ex. (24/02/2012: Apparently, Fonollosa is going to plan their wedding)_
> 
> 14/12/2014: _Díaz-Gómez wedding. Fonollosa hired someone to fuck with the heating – turned Winter Wonderland into Monsoon Season. Best man was wearing a white shirt, so that was a plus._
> 
> 03/05/2016: _Navarro-Serrano wedding. Fonollosa bribed the band to play ‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for’ as the first dance. Can appreciate the humor but fuck that bastard._
> 
> 23/08/2019: _Alonso-Sanz wedding. The great food poisoning of ‘19. Realized too late that the caterer was in Fonollosa’s pocket._

To sum it up, Martín only needed to quote the title of this ever-growing list: _100+ Reasons why Andrés de Fonollosa is a Fucking Bastard who Deserves to Rot in Hell_

**Three months to the wedding**

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” Martín hissed in lieu of a greeting, slipping out of the pouring rain and into the patisserie. 

He was pleased to see Fonollosa’s expression sour, like he had just bitten into a slice of lemon. The fucker had underestimated Martín. It’d take more than an obviously fake address to get rid of him (the bastard had sent him to an illegal cockfighting ring somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Martín had heard the police sirens in the distance as he had sped off, sure that Fonollosa had called in a tip to get him arrested at the scene). 

“Martín," Fonollosa said, eyes widening in a display of exaggerated surprise. “I thought you had come to your senses and realized that you’re in over your head.” 

Martín snorted, peeling himself out of his soggy leather jacket. He shook it out like a dog would its rain-drenched fur and suppressed a smirk when Fonollosa grimaced and reached up to wipe some errant droplets off his face. Served him right, the bastard. 

He plopped down on the chair next to Fonollosa, an undignified lump of limp hair and rain-soaked clothes. The bastard didn’t even acknowledge him. He just kept staring at the cakes laid out in front of them; it was almost as if he didn’t want anyone to think that they were there together, as if he was _ashamed_ to be seen with Martín. 

Martín moved his chair closer, just to spite him. 

“What’s on the menu?” he asked, reaching for Fonollosa’s coffee. He regretted it immediately. Apparently, the fucker liked his coffee as black as his charcoal soul. 

“Plain sponge with plum and raspberry filling, coconut sponge with spiced rum buttercream, and vanilla sponge with mango mousse filling,” Fonollosa said, pointing out each of the different flavors in front of them. 

“Disgusting,” Martín grimaced, sticking out his tongue. “Let’s throw these out. We’re going with chocolate instead. It’s a classic. We’ll have a cream filling, chocolate-strawberry roses on top, and—” 

He nearly _choked_ when Fonollosa pushed a forkful of plum-raspberry sponge past his lips. 

“What the fuck?!” Martín coughed, reaching up to wipe at his mouth with his sleeve. “The fuck is wrong with you, _hijo de_ —” 

“My, Martín." Andrés tutted and shook his head, sounding suspiciously like he was talking to a misbehaving toddler. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” 

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to force-feed other people?” 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.” 

Martín gaped at him, his cheeks burning. 

“What?” 

“The cake,” Fonollosa said, indicating the smudge of rose-colored cake in front of them with his fork. “Didn’t you like it?” 

Oh, right. The cake. That was what he’d meant. 

Martín took a deep breath to compose himself before turning back to Fonollosa. He was about to tell him _fuck, no. That was the vilest thing I’ve ever tasted_ (it wasn’t; he had once stayed for dinner at Ágata's) when Fonollosa took a bit of the plum-raspberry. With the same fork that had just moments before been inside Martín’s mouth. 

He watched, frozen to the spot, as Fonollosa’s lips closed around the fork, tasting the cake, tasting _Martín_. 

The air hitched in his throat. He felt strangely embarrassed, _flustered_. As if he was witnessing something that wasn’t meant for his eyes, something dark and secret. Something sacrosanct. Martín looked away. 

“Try the spiced rum.” 

Fonollosa speared a piece with his fork before bringing it up to Martín's lips. And Martín – clearly having lost control over his body – opened his mouth. He chewed, barely tasting the cake. And swallowed. 

“I’m not your fucking pet,” he grumbled, his cheeks burning with shame and something which he dared not name. 

A dark expression flashed across Fonollosa’s face, just one blink and then it was gone. Martín thought that it had looked suspiciously like interest. Like Fonollosa was _intrigued_ by his words, by _Martín_. 

“ _Pet_ ,” Fonollosa repeated, rolling the word around his tongue. It sounded almost lurid, drenched in a sultry coarseness that made Martín shiver. "Indeed, you’re not.” 

When Fonollosa turned back to his cake, Martín was left to wonder why his chest tightened with something that felt a lot like disappointment. 

**Three months to the wedding**

“...and then Fonollosa suggested hiring a _jazz band_.” Martín huffed out a strained laugh, sounding slightly manic even to his own ears. “What’s fucking next, huh? A cream-colored wedding dress? A bouquet made of calla lilies and peonies?” 

Shaking his head at the sheer absurdity, Martín chucked back the rest of his drink before signaling for another. From the corner of his eye he saw Ágata and Mirko exchange a look, their brows furrowed. So, it was going to be one of _those_ evenings then. 

Ágata cleared her throat. 

“ _Cariño_ , remember how you made us promise to tell you when you start to spiral again?” she asked, over-enunciating each word as if she were talking to a first-grader. “This, right here, is me telling you to get your shit together. You’re _obsessed_ with this Fonollosa guy, and it’s not a good look on you.” 

“I’m sorry, what? Me – _obsessed_?” Martín sputtered, eyes widening with incredulity. How _dare_ Ágata! “I’m not obsessed with that fucking bastard. He’s the bane of my existence, my nemesis, my Everest—” 

“Does that mean you want to mount him?” 

“—he’s been an arrogant, insufferable, narcissistic ass for as long as I’ve known him,” Martín finished, ignoring Ágata's snicker. “Wait, let me get out my list.” 

He started patting down his pockets in search for his phone, but Ágata held up a hand. 

“As much as Helsi and I love your impression of an European accent, I think by now we got your point.” 

Martín huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He knew that he was sulking, but fuck if he cared. The way Mirko was staring at him, his eyes flicking over Martín's face in search of _something_ , didn’t help either. 

“I think this man likes you more than you think.” 

Martín snorted. 

“Yeah, as much as someone can like the doormat on which they wipe their fucking Armani loafers.” 

“Nonono, I think Helsi might be onto something there,” Ágata said, tapping a finger against her lips. “Now that I think about it, that Fonollosa guy _does_ sound a bit like he’s pulling your pigtails.” 

“Ah, _cariño_ ,” Martín drawled in a bittersweet tone, baring his teeth in an ugly snarl. "Did you just compare me to a girl? With fucking pigtails?” 

Ágata rolled her eyes, swatting his arm with the back of her hand. 

“It’s just a saying, and you know it,” she said. “What I mean is, maybe Helsi is right and this guy really _does_ want to get into your pants. Maybe he’s just bad at expressing his feelings – have you thought of that? You men are _dumb_ ; it’s like you are emotionally constipated. You don’t understand how love works. You don’t have the balls for it.” 

“Let me enlighten you on how love works, hmm? In a romantic relationship, there is the lover and the beloved.” 

“Here we go again,” Ágata groaned. 

“The lover,” Martín continued, unfazed, “lives with passion, pure devotion, and romanticism. The beloved is limited to being worshipped. And _I_... have no interest in being either.” 

His words – his declaration – was met by silence. Ágata was staring at him as if he were a pitiable thing, a half-drowned cat or a homeless dog in need of a loving owner. Martín didn't like it. It made him feel weak, made him feel _pathetic_. 

At last, Ágata spoke: 

“Liar.” 

Martín scoffed and downed his drink before he signaled for another. One of those nights, indeed. 

**Three months to the wedding**

Martín made no attempt to hide his disdain as he watched Denver twirl Mónica around the ballroom. A fucking waltz, Martín scoffed, his face twisting into a grimace. Who chose a fucking waltz as a first dance, anyway? 

“This is fucking stupid,” Martín grumbled under his breath. 

“I’m sure Ariadna’s unparalleled _skills_ will convince you otherwise,” Fonollosa said, like a fucking creep. Martín hated him. 

“The waltz is my favorite,” the dance teacher – Ariadna – said, her doe-like eyes darting back and forth between them, as if unsure which one of them presented the greater threat to her teaching – the man who openly scowled at traditional ballroom dancing or the one who looked like he was undressing her with his fucking eyes. 

“It fills you with a sense of the past,” Ariadna continued. “It leaves you longing for something you can’t name.” 

Martín rolled his eyes. This was fucking pretentious. Absolutely ridiculous, really. 

He glanced at Fonollosa, foolishly thinking that he might share his disdain. He didn't. Instead, Fonollosa was hanging on her every word, smiling and nodding, and letting his hands linger when Ariadna drew him close to demonstrate the proper posture. He was fucking shameless. Disgusting. 

Ariadna threw them one last smile before returning her attention to the dancing couple. She flitted back to their side, shaking her head as she told Denver to lift his chin – “Stretch your neck, señor, like a swan”. 

Fonollosa’s eyes followed her around the room, like she had bewitched him, like he was captivated by her mere presence. Pathetic, really. She wasn't even that pretty. Her eyes were too big, her nose too button-y. She looked like a character from a Disney movie; the only thing missing were the singing animals helping her dress in the morning. 

Martín huffed and felt Fonollosa's attention shift to him. He didn't dare look up, but his skin tingled under his scrutiny, under the heat of his gaze. Martín suppressed the urge to squirm, to shuffle his feet and betray his discomfort. He’d be damned if he showed any signs of weakness in front of Fonollosa. 

After a moment, Fonollosa hummed low in his throat. 

“Ah,” he said, airily. “I see.” 

Frowning, Martín turned towards him. He opened his mouth, about to ask Fonollosa what the fuck he was talking about, but closed it again, words unspoken, when his brain registered what he was looking at. 

Fonollosa was holding out his hand, palm turned up, amusement shining in his eyes. 

“May I have this dance, Martín?" 

Martín's breath stuttered in in his chest, his heart lifting – before dropping into his stomach, the rush of heat turning into ice. Ágata's words echoed in his mind, teasing him, _taunting_ him. _He’s pulling your pigtails_ , she had said. But that couldn’t be, right? Fonollosa couldn’t... he couldn’t be interested in Martín. 

Which meant... that this was a ploy. An elaborate ruse to throw Martín off his game. To distract him from the wedding, and to crush him, once and for all. 

Right, Martín thought. This wasn’t any different than anything else Fonollosa had done to him. To all the times he had humiliated Martín. Because like many who excelled in what they were doing, Fonollosa never seemed to tire of utterly humiliating his opponents – that was, Martín. 

“What are you fucking playing at?” he asked and bared his teeth, more snarl than smile. “Think you’ll flutter your eyes at the pathetic gay guy, hmm? What, you want to make me bend to your will? Do you think I’ll fall for your charms that easily? That you can control me and turn me into your plaything, your fucking _pet_?” 

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Martín wanted to take them back. He didn't know why he had said it in the first place – if it was merely a slip of the tongue (Freudian or not), or if there was some part of him that had wanted to see Fonollosa’s reaction. To see if his eyes would cloud over once again, if his gaze would grow dark, _heated_. 

But Fonollosa didn’t bite. Instead, a shark-like grin sprawled across his face. It made Martín's blood run cold. 

“You think me charming?" Fonollosa chuckled, the sound as pleasant as nails on a chalkboard. “Is that what is happening here? Are you falling for me? For my _charms_?” 

Martín sputtered, blushing profusely. 

“Fuck off,” he snapped, turning away to hide his face. “I could do better than you.” 

Even after the words had dissipated into thin air between them, they were still ringing in Martín's ears as the silence stretched between them, strained and stifling. It was completely ridiculous, but for some reason Martín's chest tightened with guilt. He felt oddly as though he had displeased Fonollosa, as though his words had _hurt_ him. 

Like he had crossed a line, like he had been too loud, too much, too nasty. 

Martín chewed on the inside of his cheek. Guilt simmered low in his gut, rising up with icy spikes to prod at his heart. He needed to fix this. He _wanted_ to fix this. 

Making up his mind, Martín held out his hand. It hung in the air between them like a limp thing, the opposite of a thrown gauntlet – an olive branch? – and Martín noted the exact moment when realization dawned on Fonollosa. The confusion on his face gave way to astonishment and Martín watched as his eyes softened, just barely. 

Still, he didn’t turn Martín down. Instead, he clasped his fingers around Martín's hand and led him onto the dancefloor. 

Fonollosa moved them into position, guiding Martín's hand to curl around his bicep (because of course that fucking bastard would insist on leading). They stared at each other for a long moment, waiting for the cue of the music, before Fonollosa pushed forward and Martín fell into step. 

It was stiff and pretentious. Fucking stupid. The whole thing made Martín feel as if he had stepped right out of a Jane Austen novel, frilly coats and stilted conversation and _I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine_. 

“You haven’t denied it.” 

“What?” 

“That you find me charming,” Fonollosa explained. “That you are falling for me.” 

“I don’t and I’m not,” Martín said, but the words felt wrong on his tongue. Like a lie. 

It seemed that Fonollosa didn’t believe him either. Oh, he didn’t refute him. Not in so many words, at least. Instead, he pressed his hand firmly between Martín's shoulder blades, drawing him closer until their chests were barely a fingerbreadth apart. 

Heat coiled low in Martín's belly, unexpected and yes, fucking unwelcome. Because this was Fonollosa, the bane of his existence, his nemesis, his Everest. 

Fonollosa’s fingers curled against his spine, and Martín – having once again lost control over his senses, clearly – let himself sink into him. He melted into Fonollosa’s arms, as weak and pliant as butter. And alright, maybe Ariadna had been right about the longing, the thirst for more. There was something _wondrous_ about being in the arms of someone you— 

“Hmm,” Fonollosa leaned in to whisper into his ear, his lips brushing against his cheek. Martín felt his skin tingle with barely-there goosebumps. "That's it, pet." 

“Fuck you,” Martín grumbled, the sound drowned out by Fonollosa's amused chuckle. As if Martín was a delightful little thing, a toy. 

He waited, expectantly, for the surge of indignation to wash over him, to consume him whole and turn his body into a willing host of red-hot fury. It didn’t come. It was as if Martín couldn't bring himself to be offended, to be hurt. Not when he felt so warm and comfortable and – most perplexing of all – _safe_ in Fonollosa’s arms, tucked against his chest. 

It was nice. _Lovely_ , even. 

In his daze, it took him a moment to realize that they had slowed down, _stopped_. Martín blinked his eyes open, feeling confused, feeling lost. 

Someone had turned off the music, and now there was nothing but the sound of blood rushing to Martín's face, impossibly loud and deafening. He could feel the others staring at them – staring at _him_ like he had grown a second head. Martín clamped down on the urge to lash out, to draw attention from his flushed face, his labored breathing. 

From the fact that he was fucking aroused by this, by _Fonollosa_. 

But, as always, Fonollosa beat him to it. 

“It seems that Martín has changed his mind about the music selection," he said, pulling away. His voice was dripping with smug condescension, but his eyes were soft, _warm_. 

It confused Martín. Until now, he had thought that Fonollosa was an ass. Admittedly, a good-looking ass, but an ass nonetheless. But now Martín was forced to revisit that assumption. Oh, Fonollosa was still an ass – that hadn’t changed. But he was an ass wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. 

He held multitudes inside of him, a whole universe fleshed out in his heart, his soul. He was hot and cold at once, a cool drink on a summer’s day. He was hard, yet soft. He was shadows and light, deception and truth, hate and— 

\-- 

That night, Martín went out to blow off some steam. He had been overcome by the urge to lose himself in the arms of another man. To drown out the cruel voices inside his head, reminding him that he wasn’t good enough, that he was weak and pathetic and _worthless_. 

To forget. 

Martín arched his back, his cheek pressed against the bathroom wall as the stranger fucked him from behind. 

“Harder,” he begged through gritted teeth, screwing his eyes shut. “Faster. I need it faster.” 

The stranger complied, setting a punishing pace that had Martín whimpering. It was almost enough. Almost, but not quite. Martín needed more, needed something different, needed— 

“Call me pet.” 

When the stranger did, Martín came with a shout. 

**Two months to the wedding**

Martín felt like his life was spinning out of control. Maybe Ágata had been right, for once. Maybe he really _was_ spiraling. Either way, he’d have to get this shitshow back on track. And what better way to make himself indispensable to the happy couple than by sucking up to the bride, shamelessly and without regard for his own dignity? He hadn’t made _The Wedding Bride_ magazine’s shortlist for 2019’s best wedding planners for nothing, after all. 

As Martín ushered Mónica into the bridal fitting room – telling her how lovely she looked, that she was positively _glowing_ , a _vision_ – he was overcome by a sense of déjà vu. Sometimes he wondered how he – an openly gay man – had ended up in what had to be the most stereotypical profession of all, earning his living by charming _women_. 

Life was stranger than fiction, indeed. 

“Does Andrés know about this?” Mónica asked, craning her head in search of the other man. Martín didn't appreciate the suspicion creeping into her tone. 

“Of course! I sent an e-mail to his assistant,” he lied. "Looks like he couldn’t make it. How terribly unprofessional. I guess we’ll just have to do it without him.” 

“There’s no reason to fret, Martín. I wouldn't risk Mónica showing up to the ceremony in an A-line.” 

Fonollosa’s voice had about the same effect on his mood as if someone had drenched Martín from head to toe in honey before shoving him into a cave inhabited by a sleuth of wild bears. It rattled him like nothing else, but Martín'd be damned if he let it show. 

He wrestled his face into a mask of pleasantry, until his smile must be looking like it was trying to eat his face. 

“Fonollosa,” Martín forced out, aiming for _civil_ and _polite_ instead of _I want to tear your fucking heart out with my bare hands and eat it in a marketplace_. He didn’t quite succeed, and so he mostly sounded pained, like he was talking around a mouthful of bees. "You made it. Lovely." 

As always, Fonollosa ignored him. He merely brushed past Martín, stealing Mónica from his side and guiding her towards the dressing room like a gallant knight escorting his fair lady. Martín clenched his jaw as a wave of hot-white indignation swept over him. This had been _his_ plan, _his_ chance to win Mónica over and show her that she didn't need Fonollosa. That Martín was more than enough. 

The commanding drawl of Fonollosa’s voice snapped him back to the present. 

“Martín, go and fetch the champagne." 

“Fuck you.” 

Fonollosa’s lips twitched into something that resembled an amused smile. Martín realized that he had already picked out a couple of dresses, draping them over the curve of his arm. Mermaid cuts with sweetheart necklines, all of them. As if it wasn’t fucking obvious that Mónica needed a blush-colored peplum. 

Martín scoffed as Fonollosa handed his picks off to one of the store assistants before joining Martín in the waiting area – a little alcove tucked away between a rack of bow ties and a potted plant that looked suspiciously like it might have been a prop on _The Little Shop of Horrors_. 

“It’s not a good look on you,” Fonollosa said. He was staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the curtains behind which Mónica was changing into one of the mermaid dresses he had picked out for her – a laced monstrosity with a pearl shimmer. 

“What?” 

“Sulking.” 

“I’m hardly sulking.” Brooding, perhaps. Glowering. 

“It’s unbecoming, and makes you look like a spoilt child,” Fonollosa sighed, turning to face him at last. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Martín snapped, his voice as cold as ice. "What would you have me do instead, hmm? Get you a coffee? Shine your shoes? Step onto my soapbox and tell the whole world how brilliant you are? Fuck you, Fonollosa. You are a manipulative, controlling ass.” 

The words left a bitter aftertaste in Martín's mouth, and yet Fonollosa didn’t seem fazed in the slightest by the insults Martín had just hurled at him like sharp-tongued razor blades. It made him wonder if Fonollosa didn’t care about Martín's opinion of him, or if he was simply used to being called names. 

(Martín wasn’t sure which of the two upset him more.)

But there was no way to take back his words. Not that Martín wanted to. It had been the truth, after all. Fonollosa _was_ a colossal bastard, and Martín shouldn’t feel guilty about calling him out on his despicable behavior. The fucker needed to be put in his place, to be shown that there was nothing special about him. That Martín wasn't intimidated by him. 

And yet, he still flinched when Fonollosa raised his hand. For one second Martín believed that Fonollosa would punch him in the face (– a first. Surprisingly, Martín had never started a full-on brawl at a dress fitting). But to his relief, Fonollosa reached past him, focused on something just behind Martín's right shoulder. When he drew back, a silken bow tie was dangling from between his fingers. He must have gotten it off one of the racks. 

“What are you doing?” Martín asked, furrowing his brow. "You could have said something. I would have stepped aside." 

As always, Fonollosa ignored him. Right, Martín didn't know what he had expected. By now he should know that Fonollosa didn't have any manners. And to think that he had felt guilty about giving him a piece of his mind just moments before. The man clearly was a complete nutjob, and Martín was just about to tell him so when Fonollosa draped the bow tie around Martín's neck. 

His heart stopped. 

“What,” Martín cut himself off when his voice came out husky, _hoarse_. Fonollosa didn’t seem to notice, thank God. He was absorbed in his task, tying the bow tie with steady hands as if he had done it dozens of times before. Martín felt a shiver run down his spine when Fonollosa’s fingers brushed against the bare skin of his neck, so warm, so soft. His whole body was tingling, as though his nerve endings had been set on fire. 

He couldn’t _breathe._ Not when Fonollosa was standing so close to him. When he could make out the lunar-shaped shadows his eyelashes were painting onto his cheeks, tiny pinpricks of black and grey. Martín could see the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, the splashes of ember in his irises. 

Martín swallowed hard. 

The whole moment felt strangely intimate. Almost as if… No, if he wasn’t careful, he’d lose himself in the fantasy his mind was conjuring. That this was a regular occurrence between them, just another Sunday evening. That they were getting ready for a date, helping each other dress, exchanging shy smiles as their touches lingered. 

That this _meant_ something. 

“Beautiful,” Fonollosa said in a soft voice, tapping a finger against the knot of the bow tie. Martín felt himself flush. " _Powerful_.” 

They stared at each other for a long moment before Fonollosa drew back – all too soon, for Martín's liking. He felt strangely bereft. Forlorn. It didn’t help that Fonollosa seemed entirely unaffected, as if he hadn’t just sent Martín's heart racing like a joyous child on a merry-go-round. 

“Mónica will be a _revelation_ in a mermaid cut,” Fonollosa said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if it means so much to you, I’ll have her try on a peplum.” 

The _thank you_ died on Martín's tongue when Mónica stepped out of the dressing room, a vision in white. Fonollosa was by her side in an instant, pinching the fabric between his fingers as he rattled off all the adjustments they would have to make.

Martín hung back, shaken by the unfamiliar rush of warmth spilling in his chest. 

**Two months to the wedding**

He should have known. Judging from Fonollosa’s flair for the dramatic, it should have been fucking obvious that he’d pick a venue that resembled a medieval sex dungeon. Alright, so it was actually a monastery – but the hooded monks hovering in the doorway didn’t do anything to lighten the mood. They looked like extras on the set of a Dan Brown movie, fading into the shadows like ghostly specters. 

Shuddering in horror, Martín turned his attention back to Fonollosa. 

He looked fucking ridiculous, sweeping out his arms as he presented the place like a tour guide (or, at the very least, like Dracula showing off his Manor on national television). Still, Martín couldn't deny that Fonollosa looked right at home in these hallowed halls – Hamlet, contemplating the torment of his mortal existence, to be or not to be. His mulberry pocket square even matched the beams of sunlight seeping through the stained-glass windows.

Fonollosa pointed out the space for the pianist (“A harpist”, Martín interjected and was, of fucking course, ignored), how they would light candles to set the mood (“Two words: fire hazard. We’ll use fairy lights instead.”), and where they were going to erect the life-sized ice sculpture of two swans craning their heads towards the altar (“We’re not getting an ice sculpture, you pretentious fuck,” Martín snapped, at the end of his patience. “It will melt, and we’ll get our asses sued the moment the bride skitters down the aisle.”). 

“I don’t know,” Mónica said, pursing her lips. "I guess I can't really see it." 

Ha! Martín stifled his smug guffaw behind his hand. Let Fonollosa weasel himself out of this one. No way could he sell a fucking monastery that looked like the set of Whale’s _Frankenstein_ to a sweet-hearted woman like Mónica. 

His schadenfreude was replaced by bewilderment when Fonollosa grabbed him by the arm, without so much as a warning. Martín yelped, like a pig being led to slaughter, as Fonollosa dragged him unceremoniously into an alcove at the front of the nave. He nearly stumbled into Fonollosa’s chest when they came to an abrupt stop beneath a massive window, its stained glass depicting a glowing bouquet of crimson roses and snow-white lilacs. 

“You fucking bastard,” Martín hissed under his breath, brushing a hand along the front of his shirt to compose himself. To smooth out his ruffled feathers. 

He raised his chin to glare at Fonollosa, a biting insult on the tip of his tongue, but the sight that met his eyes knocked the air right out of his chest. Bathed in the light seeping through the stained-glass window, Fonollosa looked like a _vision_. Angelic, a thing of rapture. 

Martín couldn't look away if he tried. 

“Imagine standing here, the morning sun streaming in through the window,” Fonollosa told Mónica, his voice gravelly. Hypnotizing. “Everyone will hang on to your words as you exchange your vows. As you make a sacrifice out of your love.” 

He turned to Martín, at last, hands coming up to cup his face. Martín sucked in a sharp breath. He could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, and he was sure that Fonollosa must be feeling it, too. That it must be burning his fingers, scorching the tips.

“You will turn towards your intended and tell him that marriage is a sacred bond, that it is built on mutual trust and understanding. You will tell him that your love for him is something extraordinary, unique, _marvelous._ That no one else has ever made you feel something remotely similar to what you feel for him. Not even close. That you and him are soulmates.” 

Fonollosa’s thumbs brushed along the sharp lines of Martín's cheekbones, the touch as soft as a summer’s breeze. Martín swallowed. 

“You will tell him this,” Fonollosa paused, searching for the right words. “You are the most precious thing I have ever held in my arms, even if you are hot-tempered and reckless. If you are rough around the edges, it’s just because you haven’t been loved the way you deserve to be loved, yet. It’s because you have always been the lover rather than the beloved.” 

His eyes were shining, like molten gold, in the light of the stained-glass window. Martín was _awed_ by Fonollosa’s words, by the sincerity on his face. By him. 

“But I will cherish and adore and worship you, for as long as you’ll allow it. I will remind you – every single hour of the day – that you were built in the image of the Gods. That you belong in the mirrored halls of the Château de Versailles, tucked away in a glass case so the world may admire you like a timeless work of art. You would be surrounded by kings and queens – and still, I would be looking at _you_.” 

They stared at each other. 

The moment lingered, stretching like a cosmic rubber band. 

“And then you kiss him,” Fonollosa finished, turning away from Martín. 

The moment passed, the cosmic rubber band snapping against Martín's fingers. 

He felt like the rug had been pulled out from under his feet. Like his world had tilted on its axis, throwing him off-kilter. 

No one... No one had ever said something like that to him. No one had ever looked at him so intently, either, as if he was precious. As if he deserved to be happy, to be loved and cherished and cared for. 

But no, Martín reminded himself, his heart sinking. It wasn’t as though Fonollosa had been talking to him. It had all been for show. Nothing about this had been real, nothing. 

And yet... 

Martín was shocked to find that he _wanted_ it to be real. 

He glanced at Fonollosa, who was still talking to Mónica and Denver, smiling as if nothing had happened. Martín couldn't understand how he could be so calm when Martín's heart was hammering away inside his chest, a flighty bird knock-knocking against his ribcage, eager to soar into the heavens. 

Later, when Martín was lying in his bed, alone as always, he would reason that he didn’t know what exactly had happened in that moment. Why it had changed his life irrevocably, had plunged his world into a daze of vibrancy and brightness. Why it felt as if he was watching his favorite show in technicolor for the first time, when all he had been used to was black-and-white, sepia. 

The best explanation he could come up with was this: 

Martín blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, it was as if he was seeing Fonollosa – as if he was seeing _Andrés –_ for the first time. 

Something thawed inside his chest, warm and hopeful, something like spring. 

Something like _love_. 

_Well_ , Martín thought, _fuck_.


End file.
